Chapter 67
Elara
I nodded. Then realized he probably couldn't see. "Yes. I think—"
He started to move.
Slow at first. Drawing almost all the way out before sliding back in. The friction sent sparks up my spine. Pain mixed with something that might become pleasure if I let it.
I tried not to let it. Tried to remember this was Julian, who loved Sloane, who had brought me here to punish me. Who had stood by while Marcus—
"Stop thinking." He shifted his angle and I gasped as he hit somewhere deep that made my whole body jolt. "I can feel you tensing up. Stop."
"I can't—"
"Yes, you can." He thrust harder, making me cry out. "Just feel. Let yourself feel this."
He set a rhythm—deep, measured strokes that gradually built in speed. Each one drove me further into the mattress, made the bed frame creak. My torn tights still tangled around my ankles, my skirt bunched at my waist. I must have looked ridiculous. Desperate.
But I couldn't bring myself to care anymore.
My body was responding despite everything. Meeting his thrusts. My hands slid from his chest to his back, nails digging into his shirt. He was still fully dressed while I was naked beneath him, and the unfairness of it should have mattered but didn't.
"Julian—" His name fell from my lips like a prayer. Or a curse.
"Say it again."
"Julian—"
"Again."
"Julian, please—"
He captured my mouth in a bruising kiss, swallowing whatever I'd been about to beg for. His hips snapped harder, faster. The headboard hit the wall with each thrust—rhythmic, obscene.
I was going to come. Could feel it building low in my belly, pressure coiling tighter and tighter. It terrified me. I didn't want to give him this, didn't want him to know how completely he could unmake me.
"Let go," he growled against my lips. His hand slipped between us, found that sensitive spot and pressed.
I shattered.
The orgasm hit like a wave, drowning me. I arched up into him, a scream catching in my throat. My body clenched around him rhythmically, pulsing.
He groaned, his movements becoming erratic. Harder. Almost rough.
"Elara—fuck—"
His whole body went rigid. He thrust in one final time and held there, buried as deep as he could go. I felt him pulse inside me, felt the warmth spreading.
Then he collapsed onto me, breathing hard.
For a long moment we just lay there. His weight crushing me into the mattress. My arms somehow wrapped around him. Both of us trying to catch our breath.
Reality crept back in slowly.
What had I done?
What had we done?
Julian shifted, started to pull out. I winced at the friction, at the sudden emptiness. He rolled off me onto his back. I heard him adjusting his clothes, zipping his pants.
I lay very still, staring at the dark ceiling.
My body ached. Between my legs felt raw, used. I could feel his release starting to leak out of me, sticky and warm on my inner thighs.
I wanted to cry. Wanted to scream. Wanted to scrub my skin until I didn't feel his touch anymore.
But mostly I just felt... hollow.
"You should sleep," Julian said into the darkness. His voice had returned to that flat, controlled tone. Like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't just—
"I want to leave," I whispered.
"In the morning."
"Now."
"Elara—" A warning note entered his voice.
"Please." I hated how broken I sounded. "Just let me go."
Silence.
Then: "No."
The word landed like a physical blow.
I turned my head to look at him. Could barely make out his silhouette in the darkness.
"What do you mean, no?"
"I mean you're staying here tonight." He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed. "We're not done talking."
"There's nothing to talk about—"
"There's everything to talk about." He stood, and I heard him cross to the window. A moment later, dim light flooded the room as he opened the curtains halfway.
I grabbed the sheet, pulled it up to cover myself. Squinted against the sudden brightness.
Julian stood silhouetted against the city lights, hands in his pockets. He'd tucked his shirt back in, finger-combed his hair. Except for a slight flush on his neck, you'd never know what we'd just done.
"Get some sleep," he said without turning around. "We'll talk in the morning."
"Julian—"
"That's an order, Elara."
The authority in his voice made me flinch. Reminded me of every time he'd given commands at Blackwood, every time I'd scrambled to obey.
But I wasn't that girl anymore. Was I?
"You can't order me around," I said, but my voice came out weak. Uncertain.
He finally turned to look at me. The light from outside turned his face into sharp angles and shadows.
"Can't I?" A cold smile touched his lips. "You just let me fuck you. I think we're past pretending I don't have power over you."
The crude word made me flinch.
"That was—" I struggled for words. "That was a mistake. It won't happen again."
"We'll see."
"I mean it—"
"So do I." He crossed back to the bed, loomed over me. "You're mine now, Elara. Whether you like it or not. What just happened changes everything."
My heart was racing again, but this time with fear instead of desire.
"You're insane."
"Maybe." He reached out, tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture was almost tender. Almost. "But you'll learn. You'll learn to do what I say, when I say it. And if you don't—"
He didn't finish the threat. Didn't need to.
I stared up at him, this man I'd loved so desperately for three years, and saw a stranger.
No. Not a stranger.
Just finally saw him clearly for the first time.
"I hate you," I whispered.
Something flickered in his eyes. Pain? Regret?
Gone before I could be sure.
"I know," he said quietly. Then louder, more firmly: "Go to sleep, Elara. That's not a request."
He walked to the door.
"Where are you going?" I asked, hating the panic in my voice.
"To get some air. I'll be back in an hour." He paused with his hand on the doorknob. "Don't try to leave. I've told the front desk not to let you out without my permission."
"You can't do that—"
"I just did." He opened the door. "One hour. Then we finish this conversation."
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
I sat there in the tangled sheets, his release drying on my thighs, my body still aching from what we'd done.
And I knew—with horrible, crushing certainty—that nothing would ever be the same.
---
I didn't sleep.
How could I?
I lay in that bed, Julian's scent surrounding me, my body sore and used, and stared at the ceiling.
Waiting for him to come back.
An hour passed. Then two.
The sky outside started to lighten. Dawn crept across the Manhattan skyline in shades of pink and gold.
Still no Julian.
Maybe he wasn't coming back. Maybe he'd just left me here, another conquest, another—
The door opened.
I sat up, clutching the sheet to my chest.
Julian entered carrying two coffee cups and a white paper bag. He looked... rumpled. His shirt was wrinkled, tie loosened, hair disheveled like he'd been running his hands through it.
"You're still awake," he observed, setting the coffee and bag on the nightstand.
I didn't answer. Just watched him with wary eyes.
He shrugged off his jacket, draped it over a chair. Rolled up his sleeves. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to touch me.
"We need to talk about what happens next," he said.
My throat was dry. "There is no next. This was—it was a mistake. We were both drunk, and—"
"I wasn't drunk."